


The Obligatory Dog Adoption AU

by RedBlazer



Series: Bucky Barnes and the Case of "Everyone I Know is Way Cooler than I am" [5]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adoption, Animals, But with a dog?, Caretaking, Crime Fighting, Daredevil Spoilers, Dogs, Families of Choice, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jessica Jones (TV) Spoilers, Jessica Jones has a heart, Male-Female Friendship, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, like the dog is taken care of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Castle and Jessica Jones have two things in common: A love for leather jackets and a grey pit bull rescued from the Kitchen Irish's dog-fighting ring.</p><p>Or:</p><p>I required closure after the end of the second season of Daredevil. And thus--the dog adoption AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are minor spoilers for the second season of Daredevil. But you could read this and pretty much not be spoiled for anything major.
> 
> There are mentions of a crime scene and multiple mentions of dog fighting in this fic, but nothing graphic. And the dog is okay. I will stress that, because animal death is more upsetting to me than a lot of things.
> 
> Basically there's a dog that Frank Castle (The Punisher) adopts. And that dog disappears half way through the season. Nothing happens to said dog. But I was thinking about who would benefit from a puppy as sweet as the one on the show. And thus, this fic was born.
> 
> This will get a real name at some point.
> 
> Also: Upon rewatching the second season of Daredevil. I have realized the following. The dog is a boy. The dog doesn't have cropped ears of a tail (something done to pit bulls sometimes but not in this case). Personally, I don't have an issue with fudging the details here. I don't think either of these things would make a difference to the story. The addition of the dog is probably to make the dog be Max from the comic books. Eh. Whatever. This is fanfiction. Not fanfact. But I wanted to mention that I noticed these difference. Also, part of the reason that I am rewatching it is because I was trying to figure out what happened to the dog! Still no answers.
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful support. I'm happy to know that I wasn't the only person so effected by this dog/Frank Castle.

There’s an incessant barking coming from the abandoned building on the way to Jessica’s favorite bodega. Okay. It’s not her favorite. But sometimes the owner slips her a free bottle of bourbon because of what she did for the guy’s cousin a few months ago.

Jessica Jones may not be a people person. Or an animal person. But she knows the sound of suffering when she hears it.

And, three days following the first instance of the barking, Jessica rolls her eyes to herself, stashes her newly purchased bottle behind a tangle of weeds growing up through the concrete and breaks into the place. It’s easy enough, there’s just a chain on the door.

Inside, the warehouse is pitch black and humid in the summer heat. She pulls out her phone and uses it as a flashlight, all the while the dog’s whimpering and howling continues. There’s nothing in this main room. Not even crates or boxes for whatever illicit organization she was pretty sure called this place home. There’s only so many times you can see a group of white guys in suits looming around before you realize they’re probably good fellas and not a barbershop quartet.

There’s a doorway to her right that leads to a basement.

She opens it and that’s when the scent hits her.

And she knows instantly that something horrible happened here. But something is still alive.

Jessica follows the stairs down into the basement, and it’s a sprawling series of catacombs. Down here it’s colder, but she can still feel sweat pooling on her upper lip and under the fabric of her tank top.

She turns the corner and that’s when she sees it. A body, complete with Jackson Pollock paint splatter across one of the walls and a gun still in his hand. Jessica pointedly looks away, continuing towards the piteous sounds of the dog.

Three more bodies and so many bullet holes in the walls that it should be a structural liability.

She hasn’t heard anything on the news since the Irish Kitchen massacre, but that was well over two weeks away. Judging by the guns and the fortification down in the basement level, she thinks it might be connected. She sees the odd shamrock tattoo sneaking out from the sleeve of a body, green stark against pale white flesh.

And then finally, after ten minutes of cautiously stepping over corpses and skirting around corners, she walks into a large room.

The barking stops, replaced by a high, stressed whine and the weak scratching of nails on the concrete floor.

Jessica turns the phone toward the sound. It’s coming from the corner. She finally sees the dog. A grey pitbull curled in on itself, a chain attaching it to the wall. From this far away Jessica can see that its ribs show against the skin of its middle. The dog tries to stand weakly, and then falls back to the ground.

“Jesus.” Jessica says to herself. She steps closer, sees the scars on the dog’s body from what is undoubtedly is a fighting ring. If those fuckers in the basement weren’t already dead, she probably would have done the job herself.

She shakes her head. No of course she wouldn’t kill anyone. Maiming. That’s another thing.

The dog’s making a low whining sound, trying to paw at the ground weakly. It doesn’t try to get away from her when she kneels down next to it, holding out a hand in front of its muzzle for the dog to smell.

“I’m Jessica.” She tells the dog, dumbly. “And I might be an asshole, but I sure as hell wouldn’t do anything like this.”

The dog wags the short stump of its tail weakly, bumping its nose into her hand.

She breaks the chain attached to the wall. Once again, the dog tries to stand, but ends up falling back down with a whimper. Carefully, about as carefully as anything, Jessica wraps her arms around the dog and lifts it into her arms. Thankfully the dog doesn’t squirm, probably doesn’t have it in her after nearly a week of no food or water.

And it is a her, that becomes apparent once Jessica’s holding her like a gigantic furry baby against her chest.

Inexplicably, she talks to the dog as they make their way out of the building. She’ll have to call the cops from a payphone in Manhattan to leave a tip about the bodies. She might want them to rot in hell, but she doesn’t want to deal with the eventual smell on the street day in and out.

The chain keeps clinking as she walks through the halls and back up the stairs, through the door. And that’s gotta go the second she can put the dog down. Sadistic fucks locking up dogs and then dying. Oh and whoever killed those guys didn’t have the decency to let the dog go? What kind of bullshit is that?

She entertains the dog with that monolog all the way home.

Malcolm’s stretching in front of the steps to their building in preparation for a run. At least she hopes that’s the excuse he has for those shorts and the sweatband he’s wearing around his forehead.

“Jessica, you can hardly remember to feed yourself. I highly doubt adopting a dog was the smartest move.” He greets her, narrowing his eyes at the dog in her arms.

She scowls at him. “It’s not my dog. Could be yours though.” She says, going to put the dog in his arms. Malcolm backs away with his hands up.

“I’ve seen 28 Weeks, I know I can’t take care of an animal until I can take care of a plant.” Malcolm exclaims. Then his eyes catalog the same malnourishment and the scars (old and new) on the dog. She and Malcolm are pretty good at measuring the mental and physical health of others. Probably because they’ve both been steeped in the shit of addiction and general shitiness. “Jesus, Jessica. Did you break up a dog fighting ring?”

Jessica rolls her eyes and uses the dog to motion to the door to the apartment building. “Fuck no. Can you get that for me? I have a potentially dying animal in my arms and I think she probably wants water. And I need a drink.”

Malcolm practically trips over his own feet to get to the door, wrenching it open for Jessica. And instead of going on his run, he’s content to rant about the horrifying nature of dog fighting and how he can help. It ends up being pretty helpful, he uses his own key to let Jessica into her own apartment, flicking on all the lights on his way to the kitchen.

“It needs water and something to eat.” He says, slamming open cupboards in a way that makes the dog shake in Jessica’s arms. It makes her stomach turn over.

“She.” Jessica tells him, walking into the kitchen as Malcolm locates the largest cereal bowl that she owns and fills it with water.

“She’s starving. You watch her, and I’ll run to the market and pick up something for her to eat. I don’t think her first meal at your place should be week old Chinese food.” Malcolm seems content to play the dog whisperer.

“If you’re going to the bodega by that abandoned warehouse, could you do me a favor and grab the bottle of bourbon I left in a bush?” Jessica asks, trying to deposit the dog on the ground as carefully as she can.

“I’m sober.” Malcolm reminds her, hands on his hips.

“I’m not asking you to drink it.” Jessica tells him, finally getting the dog on the kitchen floor. She pulls a twenty from her back pocket and hands it to him. There’s an awkward moment of silence. “Thanks.” She finally tells him, and that seemed to be all Malcolm was waiting for.

He takes off, shutting the door behind him in a way that rattles the glass pane in the door.

And now she has a problem. The dog can’t stand up to drink from the water bowl. And it clearly must be thirsty because it’s staring at he bowl and whimpering. She solves this by settling the dog in her lap, its head hanging off the edge of her thigh, above the water bowl.

This works perfectly, until it doesn’t.

Turns out that you shouldn’t let a starving dog drink all of the water that it wants because it’ll make itself sick. And that’s exactly what the dog does.

She’s annoyed, but she doesn’t have it in her to hold it against the dog. She’s thrown up in a lot worse places than a kitchen floor. Plus it was only water and some bile. Instead, she blindly snags a dishtowel from the counter above her and pats down her jeans and the floor. Absently she pets the dog as it breathes quick and shallow breaths.

“It’s okay. We’re okay.” Jessica tells the dog. Which is fucking dumb. Because it’s a dog. But the dog paws at her leg and that’s good enough for her.

Malcolm returns not with dog food like a normal person. He’s back with chicken breasts, hamburger meat, and rice.

“I didn’t to go veterinary school, but I think dogs eat dog food.” Jessica tells him from the floor. But at least he hands over the bottle of booze she left on the street.

“I Googled.” Malcolm tells her, holding up his phone. “You should ease her back in to eating with simple food. Rice and beef or chicken should be a good start.” He pointedly looks at Jessica’s pants. “Clearly her stomach couldn’t handle water. You’re gonna have to monitor her portions.”

“Yeah, until Animal Control comes to take her.” Jessica says, cracking open the bottle and taking a swig directly from it. The burning of her throat and stomach is a comforting feeling.

Malcolm pauses filling up a pot with water for the rice, staring at her like she’s a monster. A look that she’s not unfamiliar with at this point.

“You’d just give her away?” Malcolm says. “Jessica, you have to know how many dogs are in shelters. And if she has a history of dog fighting, no one will take her. She’ll be euthanized.”

Jessica pointedly looks down at the dog in her lap. “Yeah, she’s a real killer.” She says sarcastically. “You already told me I couldn’t have a dog.”

Malcolm puts the pot of water on the stove and measures the rice with a measuring cup Jessica didn’t know she owned. “Yeah, well that was before I found out that she’d had a tragic backstory.”

“Don’t we all.” Jessica laments, rubbing one velvety ear between her fingers absently. She pulls the water bowl back towards the dog, making sure to push it away after she’s had a few mouthfuls.

Malcolm sighs to himself, putting the hamburger and the chicken in two pans to brown. This is the most action her kitchen has ever gotten. Once he’s done with that, he leans down and surveys the dog a little closer.

“She’s sweet.” He says, holding out his hand for her to smell.

“She’s starving.” Jessica responds flippantly. “Who knows if she’s gonna live. For all I know, there’s something wrong with her.”

Malcolm shakes his head, getting back up to stir the chicken and check on the rice. Jessica tells him how she found the dog. She doesn’t know what Malcolm is more grossed out by; the bodies or how some asshole could leave a dog to die like that.

Eventually Malcolm makes up a small bowl of food for the dog, setting it down within reach. Pretty predictably, it’s gone in seconds. Malcolm smiles absently to himself while trying to keep his fingers away from the eating dog.

“She needs a name, Jessica.” He tells both Jessica and the dog.

“Don’t get attached.” Jessica tells Malcolm, feeling like a parent warning her child.

\---------

Trish arrives the next morning with a gigantic dog bed and two heavy bags full of toys, expensive dog food, a leash, collar, and dog bowls.

She doesn’t even have the decency to call and ask Jessica what’s new. Obviously Malcolm got in touch with her last night and told her all about Jessica’s rescue mission.

Makes sense considering that Jessica only remembered to feed the dog when she woke up to whining coming from the kitchen twenty minutes ago.

“I could kill the son of a bitch who left that dog down there.” Trish says in greeting, pushing her way into the apartment. She throws down the dog bed in the corner of her office and continues to the kitchen.

“Apparently nothing brings people together quite like hating the assholes who abuse animals.” Jessica tells her, wandering in the direction of the kitchen where the dog is hanging out in the nest of old towels Jessica put down for her last night.

Upon seeing Trish, she wags her nub of a tail and barks repeatedly.

“Cool it, dude.” Jessica tells the dog, kneeling down to pick up the empty water bowl. Looks like the dog kept down its dinner too.

“Oh it’s fine.” Trish says, “Is it okay if I pet her?”

Jessica pulls the dog’s food out from the fridge. “I’d give her a minute. You don’t want to get in the way of her and her food.”

Trish nods, and sets about unpacking the bags she brought with her from an upscale dog boutique.

“I don’t know why you brought all of that shit. She’s not staying here.” Jessica tells Trish, putting down the bowl of food for the dog.

\--------

The dog ends up staying. Not because Jessica wants her. But because no one will take her. The Humane society is backed up because of kitten season and animal control practically laughed at her when she told them about her dog situation.

“Assholes.” Jessica grumbles, hanging up the phone.

The dog looks up at her from its place on the dog bed in the corner.

“You’re not staying here.” Jessica tells the dog.

The dog goes to sleep. She totally calls Jessica’s bluff.

\--------

Another thing about dogs is that they require a lot of attention. Especially when you’re trying to bring them back from the brink of starvation. The dog as Jessica calls her, or Sweetie as Malcolm has named her has to eat at a strictly scheduled times during the day. Jessica flatly refuses to cohabitate (she doesn’t own the dog, they’re basically roommates) with a dog named Sweetie.

Until Sweetie refuses to answer to anything else besides Sweetie. And so that’s her name.

And though it’s her name, she should have been named ‘Pain in the Ass’ because boy does she know how to do that.

She’s in turns terrified by and aggressive towards loud noises. Sweetie shies away from other dogs and cannot be around other pitbulls in particular. Jessica knows her barking and charging at the door is all for show. She’s never bitten anyone who runs up to her on the street, including kids who shove their tiny hands into her face all the time. She’ll throw herself on her back and show her grey and white belly to whoever is at the door or offering her pets.

She’s literally all bark and no bite. It’s no wonder she has so many scars from the ring. She wouldn’t fight another dog of attack so much as a bunny.

“Remind you of anyone?” Malcolm asks Jessica one night when he returns Sweetie from their evening run two weeks later. She’s regained enough weight to be healthy and it’s pretty cruel to keep a young energetic dog cooped up in an apartment all day. So Malcolm takes her with him on his runs.

Jessica would be lying if she said it didn’t make her feel a little better knowing that anyone trying to fuck with Malcolm would be intimidated by Sweetie.

She slams the door in his face and goes to take a shower. Sweetie sits outside the shower curtain, staring at her the entire time.

Having a dog is weird.

That night Jessica pours herself into bed after reviewing her latest case files. Sweetie slinks into the bedroom judging by the soft tapping of her nails on the wood floor. She sits next to the bed, staring at Jessica in the darkness. The streetlights from outside reflecting off her gray eyes.

“Go lay down, Sweetie.” Jessica tells the dog, keeping her eyes closed.

Sweetie doesn’t go lay down. Instead she heaves a huge sigh and stays where she is, staring at Jessica unnervingly. And even laying there trying to sleep, Jessica knows the dog’s staring her down.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Jessica says, flipping on the light next to her bed. “You can sleep on the bed for tonight. But that’s it. And if you piss or shit we’re gonna have words. Okay?” Sweetie sneezes in reply. And that’s good enough for Jessica. She pats the bed and Sweetie jumps up, landing on her calves. But she settles down a few feet away, behind Jessica’s knees.

Turns out she’s a huge bed hog.

\--------

It’s not temporary. She sleeps in Jessica’s bed every night. And Jessica gives up trying to hand Sweetie over to every single client who walks through the door.

Instead, it becomes normal for her to take Sweetie on her morning walk and pick up the paper and a cup of coffee. Today they sit in the park while Jessica reads about The Punisher and Sweetie enjoys the attention of an old woman who carries treats around in her purse.

The old woman catches sight of the black and white mugshot of Frank Castle on the cover of the newspaper. “If you ask me, that young man deserves a medal.” She tells Jessica. Jessica shrugs in reply.

The only opinion she has about The Punisher and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is that she hopes they stay out of her way. It’s probably a moot point considering that she’s a magnet for nonsense and bullshit.

\---------

Bullshit like walking back from the bodega with booze for her and a rawhide for Sweetie when a guy with a sky mask, a bag lumpy with cash, and a gun in one hand comes running around the corner towards her. Jessica holds out an arm, clotheslining the guy. He falls to the ground, the gun falling out of his hand. Jessica kicks it across the street, leaning over to haul the guy to his feet. He’s protesting weakly, having banged his head on the ground.

And of course, who drops down from the awning above the dry cleaner? The Leatherman himself. Daredevil.

“I think you dropped this.” Jessica says, holding the guy by his collar so that his feet don’t touch the ground.

Daredevil stands stock-still for a few seconds before a crooked grin appears on his face below the mask. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Jessica says, dropping the guy to the ground at Daredevil’s feet. She looks over at the bag of money. “So the cash...”

“Belongs to a charity for children’s cancer research.” Daredevil answers, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jessica sighs, “Doesn’t it always. Well, have a good night.” She says, continuing on her way home.

Sweetie appreciates the rawhide. She wags her weird little tail and settles down to destroy it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on my phone so I'm gonna post it. Please ignore any glaring errors! I'm thrilled that you seem to be enjoying the fic so far!

She'll admit to being strong as hell, but somehow Sweetie manages to pull the leash out of her hand at the park, taking off at speed only matched by Jessica when there's an open bar in the vicinity. Pretty luckily, there's no one around to scream at her for letting her vicious-looking but actual pudding-faced dog on the loose in a park where kids play.

"Fuck." Jessica mutters to herself, pocketing her phone and wrapping her scarf more securely around her neck against the bitter October gusts of wind. Sweetie's still running full-tilt, dragging her leash behind her. Trish will be pissed. 

Jessica takes off after the dog, across the frosty grass of a large, flat area of the park and there she is, wagging her weird little butt while pawing at the knees of some poor guy having a cup of coffee on the benches that line the path surrounding the park. "Hey! I'm sorry. Please don't sue me. I have nothing to my name except for that dog and she's more trouble than she's worth!" Jessica yells, finally catching up to them. She stops short of the benches, catching her breath. The cold air makes her lungs feel like they're going to explode. 

Only. Sweetie's making her classic 'I love this human! Hello human! I love you!' whimpering sound that is reserved for the following (in this order):

Malcolm  
Trish  
The woman who gives her free dog treats at the bodega  
Jessica

And the guy doesn't seem to really mind being clobbered by a dog who is far more dense than she appears to be. Malcolm can barely lift her. Bench guy has left his coffee to the side on the bench by his hip. He has two large hands cradling Sweetie's head, scratching her behind the ears. Every single knuckle on his hands is either split or bruised and healing. He cocks his head to the side, pushing back the black hood of his jacket back from his head, "Huh?" The guy asks. 

And Jesus. His face is even worse than his hands. He looks like a skull. Twin black eyes forming shadows of eye sockets. His nose has been recently broken, two butterfly bandages over the bridge are holding another cut closed. Then there are the general purple and green of healing bruises across his cheekbone and jaw. His hair is close cropped on the sides, a little longer on the top. Military. 

"My dog." Jessica says, pointing at Sweetie, who is now standing on her back legs, her forelegs planted firmly on the man's knees. "I'm sorry she got away from me."

The guy goes quiet, a quick intake of breath as he looks from the dog to Jessica and back again. "Huh." He says again, a finger mapping out the web-like silver scar on her ear and face. "Your dog."

Normally Jessica would grab the leash and take off. But something about this man reminds her of Malcolm before he became the most sane person in her life. A little lost. But there are gears turning below the surface.

"Her name's Sweetie." Jessica says, sitting on the bench by the man. Not right next to him, four feet down, separated by the wrought iron arm rest. Personal space is a commodity in this city. She's not gonna get up in this guy's business.

The Human Bruise frowns at the dog's name. But it pulls at the stitches along his lip and he winces audibly. "I didn't fucking name her. My neighbor did." Jessica tells him. The guy rolls his eyes and lights up a cigarette in flagrant disregard for the sign prohibiting the act. He holds out the slightly crushed pack to Jessica, she shakes her head. "I made a promise to a friend that I would stick to booze."

He sighs, striking a match against his thumbnail, lighting the cigarette dangling from his lips. "Eh." He says, waving his hand dismissively. Sweetie paws at him anxiously. "Sorry. Sorry." He says, directed at the dog. He goes back to scratching her behind the ears.

They sit there for a good minute of silence. It should be awkward, but it's not. She appreciates the fact that he's not asking what she does or why her dog is covered in scars. And in turn she's not going to ask him if he's a professional hitman or a boxer. 

At some point she pulls out her phone and catches up on her email for the agency. The guy finishes his cigarette and gets up to throw the butt away in a trash can along with his coffee cup. Sweetie follows him, dancing from paw to paw. He kneels down, wincing again. The guy scratches her beneath the chin.

"See you around, Jessica." The guy says, waving as he walks away.

Her stomach goes cold. The hairs on her arms standing on end at the statement. She's on her feet and reaching for him in less than a second. The man spins around, knocking her arm away with amazing reflexes. But he doesn't put any weight behind it. And his intention isn't to hurt her. 

"How do you know who I am?" She asks, hands raised in case he plans on attacking. She looks pointedly at the bulge of a weapon under his hoodie that she hadn't seen he was sitting down. 

The guy's eyebrows pull together. "Yelp. The yellow pages. Facebook. Take your pick." He shrugs. His voice is deep and hoarse from disuse. Sweetie stands between them, whining again at mommy and daddy fighting. She nudges Jessica's leg with her cold nose. "I make it my business to know who's working in The Kitchen if things go south."

And because the guy apparently loves to make a dramatic exit, he pulls up the hood of his coat, and turns to walk away at the exact moment that a flock of pigeons take off. Sweetie looks up at her, leans down and picks up her own leash, offering it to Jessica like an apology for running off in the first place.

"Ugh, you're weird." Jessica says instead of 'I love you'.


	3. Chapter 3

Luke just stares at the dog. He looks at where she’s drinking from the conveniently placed dog bowl outside his bar to the leash in Jessica’s hand like he’s completely flabbergasted. And because she’s a complete asshole she can’t even not make it weird.

“I didn’t get her because of you. This is a cohabitation situation.”

Luke shakes his head to himself absently and walks back into the bar without a word.

Sweetie remains oblivious.

They don’t talk about Killgrave in his head or the fact that she dragged him through a hospital where everyone wanted to kill her. She’s super fucking strong. Just not enough for that.

\---------

Trish gets a particularly creepy letter from an old stalker and so Sweetie spends the weekend at her place, getting spoiled while Jessica takes a bus to New Jersey trying to track down a deadbeat dad for a case.

\---------

They’re not allowed to have cats or dogs in her building, but no one has brought that up to Jessica. Most likely because she’s been known to lift the dumpster for the landlord to retrieve his keys. Plus it’s not like Sweetie does anything other than bark a little bit. But that’s only when she meets someone she doesn’t know. After that she’s a big old softie.

Malcolm chips in when he can, taking her on walks and keeping her in his apartment if Jessica’s tailing someone. 

The first time Robin sees Sweetie, she practically takes the dog’s leash and claims her for her own. Mind you, this is a woman who has literally never approved of anything that Jessica has said or done. Robin kneels down on the grimy pavement outside their building and touches the silver scaring on Sweetie’s front paw softly. “You’re just like Ferdinand aren’t you?” she asks.

Jessica, standing there like an asshole, looks up from her game of Candy Crush. “She’s a girl.” Jessica tells her. “Malcolm named her Sweetie, the jackass.”

Robin looks up at Jessica in that eerie unblinking way that she does and shakes her head. “Ferdinand, the bull who didn’t want to fight. From the children’s book. Our mom would read that to us all the time. All he wanted to do was lay under a tree and sleep the day away, just like your girl.”

“Whatever you say.” Jessica sighs. This is the dog who eats eighty dollar dog food that Trish set up an Amazon subscription for. Her fighting days are over. Hell, she sleeps most of the time.

\---------

Okay. So it is nice. Hearing the bark (just one) when she gets off the elevator because somehow Sweetie knows it’s her coming. And then she’ll stick her face through the door the second that Jessica cracks it open. She can’t wag her tail so much as wag her whole butt, which again. Weird.

That doesn’t make Jessica one of those crazy dog people who treat them like they’re children. She doesn’t carry Sweetie everywhere (only when she’s tired and when she has to go to the vet) and she will never willingly send Sweetie to a doggy spa.

Trish on the other hand. Trish it a fucking psycho.

Moving on. It is nice having someone else there to bounce ideas off of while she’s researching. And Sweetie is the perfect partner: she never says anything stupid. Plus the number of dudes catcalling her on the street has gone down by 95%. It’s a totally unfounded to believe that all pit bulls are aggressive, but she’ll let that stereotype work in her favor.  
\--------

His name is Frank. And he takes his coffee black. 

Jessica learns this because she and Sweetie make it a habit to pick up a couple of cups of coffee and walk to the park where they met in the first place. Okay. She doesn't make it a habit so much as Sweetie will not leave her alone at nine in the morning anymore. If Jessica is asleep (like any person who takes photos of people's trysts well into the early morning), then Sweetie wakes her up. And if Jessica is awake already, Sweetie brings Jessica her leash and waits by the door in the least patient manner ever. 

Sometimes he's there. Sometimes he isn't. She tries to distract Sweetie on those days. Like she's a child of divorce and Frank forgot to pick her up for their weekend. The asshole owes Jessica so much money for all of the gourmet treats Jessica has to buy Sweetie to cheer her up. She likes to remind Sweetie that Jessica doesn't eat as well as she does. But unsurprisingly, Sweetie doesn't care.

Anyway. On these increasingly frigid mornings, she waits in the park for Frank to show up or not. On this morning he does show up, one arm in a sling under his coat.

"Jesus Frank." Jessica says, holding out his coffee. But he's not here for Jessica. He's here for his girl. And before he takes the coffee from her, he's holding out a hand to Sweetie to small and the petting one of her velvety ears. He sighs, standing with some difficulty.

"She's wearing a sweater." Frank tells her. Of course, Jessica knows this. Because she's the one who had to sit on the dusty floor of her apartment to get Sweetie into it. 

"She's a shorthair. She doesn't insulate well." Jessica waves a hand. "My friend bought it for her." Wait until he sees the booties to protect her feet from the salt on the sidewalks

Frank sighs, "Should get her a flack jacket." Frank chuckles at his own joke. He finally accepts the coffee with his only free hand. 

They don't talk about it. The injuries or the fact that he always wears a hood to cover part of his face. If the park suddenly becomes crowded, they walk till they find a more secluded area. But she knows. Knows who he is and what he's done. It was hard to walk around New York City without noticing Frank Castle's face and name plastered everywhere. She thinks part of the reason he hasn't been arrested again is that the public is secretly not-so-secretly okay with the fact that he's making sure bad people never make it back on the street.

It's only today that he volunteers anything about himself besides his name. Probably because they've been meeting like this for a month. The city is starting to dress itself up for Christmas even though it's not even thanksgiving.

"I would have gone back for her." Is what he says, looking down at Sweetie with a shuttered expression.

They're walking down the path. Frank setting their slow pace.

Of course. The Kitchen Irish. That summer that the heat was so sweltering it felt like everyone was going crazy. And there in the bodega, the first photo of Frank that she had seen after his arrest. On the way home, hearing Sweetie's cries from the abandoned building. The bodies.

"Couldn't go back for her. Couldn't get out of that bed." Frank says. "I would have though. Should have told someone--but I wasn't thinking. Couldn't--couldn't think straight. I'm sorry."

Jessica bites her lip. "Well. Someone went and got her. And she's fine. Nothing to worry about." Dear god. Please don't let this become A Moment. Between her and Frank they don't have the sensitivity of a whole person.

Frank looks at her intently. And for once he doesn't have two black eyes. Just the one, and it's healing. He needs a home cooked meal like crazy. The line of his cheekbones is more and more dramatic with every time they meet. But she can start to see the person he was before he picked up The Punisher persona. Before his one-man war on crime in The Kitchen. He probably had his pick of anyone before.

"Just. Thank you." Frank says, pushing out the words in one go. "Take the apology. Like blood from a stone with you." And if he had more than one hand available, he would probably light up a cigarette.

Sweetie is beside herself as usual. So happy to have both of them there. She keeps looking over her shoulder to make sure Frank is there. He smirks at her.

"You're welcome." Jessica says. And she never considered that someone didn't just leave Sweetie to die. It never crossed her mind that anyone would come back for her. To Jessica, Sweetie's life before was a big old black hole of suffering. "Look. If she was yours--"

"I'm not asking for her back." Frank tells Jessica sharply. But he's not mad. He just wants to be understood. "I patched her up is all. Found her bleeding after a Kitchen dogfight."

"But then they came back for her." Jessica fills in. 

He nods. "Stupid. Stupid move. And I knew better. But she needed to be walked. Be outside and not chained up in some shitty warehouse." Frank beats himself up verbally as much as gang members and mobsters do physically. 

"She's fine now. Look at her. There isn't a dog in New York that is as spoiled as she is." Jessica says. "Her bed is more comfortable than mine is. And she won't even sleep in it!"

Frank sighs, not completely convinced.

"I'm not saying that I'll aid and abed your ass, because the police and I aren't on the best of terms. But if you ever want to see her, my window used to have a lock until some asshole named Jessica broke it because she lost her key and didn't want to pay for a new door." She says. "I know you know where I live. Probably know the milk in my fridge could become sentient any day now. Stop by. Stop wallowing in darkness for a hot second." He gives her an intent look.

"Heartless bitch." Not an insult. The kind of theming she would call Trish because they know each other. 

She slings an arm around his shoulder. "Deranged murderer."

He could pretty easily duck away with all that crazy combat training. But he doesn't. And they walk together. She wonders if people far enough away just see two people walking their dog. If the bags under her eyes and Frank's arm in its sling fade into the background. God. What it must be like to be normal.

\--------

Daredevil is in her goddamn bathroom.

Not only that. But he’s bleeding all over it.

“Son of a bitch.” Jessica groans in the doorway, dropping her groceries to the floor. She looks over at Sweetie, panting happily in the shower stall. “What are you good for?” She asks the dog. She should get a gun.

Daredevil has the decency to let her have her moment before bringing her attention to the arrow sticking out of his leg. Seriously? Fucking arrows and shit.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to involve you in this.” He rasps, leaning heavily against the bathroom sink. The bare bulb in her bathroom reflects off of the black lenses covering his eyes and turn his stubble into inky darkness.

“So you came to my apartment and bled all over it?” Jessica’s already going for the first aid kit in the desk. She brings back a bottle of Jack Daniels as well. Daredevil holds out a hand expectantly. Literally the last thing she’s expecting him to do when she hands him the bottle is to liberally douse the wound in it. “What the fuck? I have antiseptic for that!” she snatches the bottle back and takes a heavy swig.

“I need your help.” Daredevil tells her, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Jessica rolls her eyes and strips off her jacket. And throws it in the direction of the other room. “You need someone to pull that out.”

He nods, “I tried to, but I have to pull it out through the back of my leg and—“

“You chickened out.” Jessica answers. “Okay.” And she doesn’t give him a chance to brace himself before she stalks into the room, reaches for the back of his leg and wrenches the arrow out in one swift move. 

Sweetie makes a sad sounding whine at that as Daredevil sinks down onto the floor next to the tub. She licks at his cheek and before Jessica can pull her away, he’s holding up a hand. “It’s fine. Even a little comforting.”

Jessica sighs, narrowing her eyes at the steadily bleeding wound of his upper thigh. “I’m going to regret this statement immediately.” She says. “But you need stitches. And I actually need to clean that.”

Daredevil sighs, planting his hand by his side and trying to heave himself off the floor, “No, it’s fine. I should go. I can stitch it up.”

“Like hell you can.” Jessica tells him, unlatching the first aid kit on the bathroom sink so she can survey her options. “You know how strong I am. Don’t make me go all Misery on you.”

She can’t tell if he laughs or winces. Without being able to see his eyes it’s hard to tell. She thanks whatever spaghetti monster that rules the universe that she never actually put on a mask and costume. Hero shit is hard enough on her bras. She can only imagine what commissioning a new costume would be like.

“Okay. Fine.” Daredevil says, reaching up a hand and patting Sweetie on the head. She rests her head on his shoulder like she’s used to people in her life showing up with the crap beaten out of them. And she actually really is.

“What I mean is, “ Jessica sighs, uncapping the bottle of Jack and taking a massive swing. “Jesus, I never even ask people to do this. It usually just happens. You have to take your pants off.” She gestures with the bottle for emphasis. “And since you’ve got that whole bondage suit—“

“It’s a Nanofiber blend with Kevlar—“

“I don’t give a fuck.” Jessica returns, rolling her eyes, “That thing doesn’t have pants. I mean—how do you pee if you’re out on the street?”

He shrugs, “I hold it.”

Once again, Jessica takes a gulp of Jack before passing the bottle over to the guy bleeding all over her bathroom floor. And they should really get him somewhere that isn’t—you know, somewhere where people pee.

“You are a glutton for punishment.” Jessica tells him. “You’re gonna have to take the whole thing off. Now—I can help you, and look away or whatever if you have some kind of tattoo with your name and social security number on your lower back.”

Daredevil cocks his head to the side. “I’m a grownup. I think I can handle you seeing me in my underwear.”

Jessica feigns relief, “Well my next question was whether or not you were concerned about VPL in that outfit.” He frowns. “Visible panty line. Something women are apparently supposed to be worried about. Clearly we’re both in the same camp there.”

“Please stop talking.” Daredevil tells her, taking a gulp from the bottle he’s still holding in his bloody hand.

Jessica rolls her eyes. It takes a couple tries to get him off the floor. Not because she’s not strong enough, but because the fucker is squirmy like a kid. “I will knock you out.” She tells him on the third try.

Daredevil refrains from responding as he’s currently heaving from the pain. “You’re strong.” He tells her, slurring a bit.

“You’re a lightweight.” Jessica tells him, taking him to sit on the end of her bed. She grabs whatever clean towels she can find and any clean old sheets that haven’t survived a period unscathed, laying them out so that she won’t have to explain why her bedroom looks like a scene from Dexter to the next gentleman caller she has.

And then there’s the ordeal of getting Daredevil out of his costume and down to his boxer briefs.

She should really get some kind of first aid certification if people are going to keep walking into her life like this.

\----------

A few days later, Malcolm handles New York's most wanted sleeping on Jessica's couch surprisingly well. He picks up a baseball bat by the door instead of calling the cops. And Frank also handles this well. He disarms Malcolm with a lazy swipe of his good arm instead of killing him.

Malcolm asks if Jessica knows she has a murderer sleeping on her couch. Jessica tells him she does. And then Malcolm asks to be released from the duct tape that Frank wrapped his wrists and ankles in because The Punisher can't explain himself well.

\----------

There's a girl. Because of course there is.

"Don't want to have her falling into this shit storm." Frank tells her, holding his beer bottle by the neck. She has to buy beer now. 

"Gee. Thanks." Jessica growls at him as she unpacks their Chinese food. She tries not to think about the cracks in the walls from the first time she and Luke went at it once they knew about the other's powers. 

"You know what I mean. You can handle yourself. She can--she can too. But--ah dammit, you've got me turned around." Frank points a broken finger at her. 

Jessica holds up the plates in surrender.

"She's dodged enough bullets for a lifetime." Frank says, downing the last of his beer. The only one he will drink tonight because he needs to be on his feet. "Quit putting words in my mouth." Is what he ends with, putting down the bottle with a little force.

Jessica doesn't mention that she literally hasn't said anything.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a short one.

There’s a lawyer who wants her to follow Daredevil. Jessica cracks her knuckles, staring at the guy in a way that clearly makes him nervous. The guy tucks his chin-length hair behind his ear a few times in the silence that falls between them in the empty hallway.

“I don’t want to hurt him. I just want you to follow him.” The guy, Franklin Nelson judging from the name plate on the door he rushed out of when Jessica passed him on her way to deliver her termination papers to HR. No way in hell she’s gonna work for a woman who nearly got Trish killed by helping Killgrave get out. Plus she’s fully provide intel for the secretary. Pro bono, by the way.

“You better start explaining yourself really fast.” Jessica tells him.

The guy blinks rapidly for a full ten seconds.

“Alright. I’ll explain what’s going on for you.” Jessica tells him. “I don’t work for this law firm anymore because it’s populated with sociopaths. Sociopaths who think they can turn even bigger sociopaths into tools of justice.” Nelson starts to go red around the ears. “I’m guessing you’re asking me this because you know who I am and what I can do. You think I’ll have no problem finding Daredevil and letting you know what he’s up to. Now I don’t know what you’re gonna do with that information. Part of my brain tells me that you probably have some kind of shrine to the guy. But the actual, logical part of my brain knows that there are people in this city who would string him up from a telephone pole and not think anything about it. Because he’s different. He’s like me.”

Nelson holds up a hand, looking around now. But no one is stepping out of their office to check on him. “That’s not at all—“

“Pardon me if I don’t believe you. I don’t even know you. And yeah, you look like a nice guy. But that’s not enough for me to go on. So save your money and just do what everyone else does—track the guy on Twitter. He may look like he’s on his way to work at Marcie the Mistress’ House of Pain and pretend to be a shadow, but there are dozens of sightings every night of the guy.” Jessica tells him. “Call me if you have a real mystery to be solved.”

The guy looks shell-shocked. He walks back into his office and slowly closes the door.

She’s actually a little proud of herself for not throwing something heavy so that he had a story he can tell his buddies at the bar.

 

\-----------

 

Okay. So Frank pretty much lives at her place. He drops in at odd hours. Never when the sun is out. But at three in the morning she’ll hear the window squeak open, feet land on the floor and then the window will close again. Then, steps towards the couch and a muffled grunt as he lays down.

Jessica gets up to use the bathroom and throws a blanket in his general direction. She does her business and goes back to the living room, leaning over the back of the couch. In the low light of the room, the streetlights filter through the blinks and cast shadows over his bruised face.

“You okay?” She asks him, fully knowing there will be blood on the couch in the morning. There always is. She should just buy her own steam cleaner instead of renting one from the place around the corner.

Frank grunts, twitching a hand toward his shoulder. “Dislocated. Put it back in place.”

“Well, you know where the Advil is. You won’t take it, but you know where it is.” Jessica says, nodding to herself. He would tell her if it was anything worse than that.

“You aren’t wearing any pants.” Frank tells her instead of responding to her previous statement like a human being.

She doesn’t get to answer because there’s a whimpering sound and then Sweetie sticks her cold nose in the back of Jessica’s knee in greeting. She sidles up to the couch, wagging her butt now that she knows that Frank is here.

“My girl.” Frank greets her in what is a startlingly normal turn of phrase. She sees flashes of him arriving home from tours of duty, slinging his wife up in his arms.

“Traitor.” Jessica says to the dog, leaving them both to go to sleep.

 

\---------

 

Luke’s become the Hero of Harlem and Jessica still can’t get ahold of her cable provider to save her life.

Typical.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments and kudos! Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm helloredblazer on tumblr!


End file.
